


eyes closed

by ocelot



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2487836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ocelot/pseuds/ocelot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean thinks he's in love, but what does he know. After all he's a fifteen year old boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	eyes closed

_Your hair is pretty._

Then she cuts it.

From then on he presses his compliments into her skin with kiss after relentless kiss.

She is like a piece of art. What little he knows of it anyway. From the dusty, yellowed pages of Armin’s books he sneaks glances at.

They fit together crookedly. She squeezes his hands tightly, fingers laced with his, and runs her tongue over his pronounced Adam’s apple.  

Her body is wrapped around his.

The floor is cool against his sweat-stuck skin and his heart is beating so fast he fears it’s going to tear through sinew, bone and glistening skin and knock against her ribs.  

Jean can feel everything and nothing when he looks into her eyes. He’s swimming in their black depths. When she blinks he’s pushed down gasping for air and when she kisses him he fears he’ll forget how to breathe without her. 

He says her name slowly. Letting it run over his tongue like water. He takes in her dark and her light like a sponge. The dark nestles in like it always had a home in him and the light tears open a wound. 

At night when she sinks further into her memories — memories that no one, especially not a girl as young and beautiful as Mikasa, should have to endure — she crawls into his bed quietly. It’s become almost routine. So much so that he begins to leave a space for her.

Jean clings to her until she slips from the embrace, closing the door silently. She’s as quiet as a mouse. It’s not because she feels guilty. It’s because she was never there in the first place.

When her fingers aren’t between his they’re in his hair, pulling his head back like a beast that hungers for flesh, down his pants, or dancing over the curve of his collarbones. 

They’re bitten to the quirk, and yet still find a way to dig into his skin.

That too, Jean thinks, was something that was once pretty. 

His fingers circle a bruise. It runs the gamut of colour and hurts when he presses down.

He has no scars. Not like her.

"Beds are for sleeping," She says with an adventurous glint in her eyes.

They fuck on the floor, against the wall of her bedroom that paints them in shadows, and on the bathroom sink counter. 

She likes to the meet the eyes of her reflection defiantly. The girl in the mirror questions what the fuck she’s doing, but her body doesn’t question this. All limbs entangled and the tiles leaving impressions in their skin and her mouth pressed to his. She whispers things that trap him. That make him think this isn’t a game, but it is.   

He thinks he’s had enough of adventures.

 _Beds are for sleeping._ Her words are etched on the inside of his eyelids.

But he can’t sleep.

He can’t sleep when he’s next to her and he can’t sleep when he’s not next to her. He flutters in and out of dream laden sleep in the warmth she leaves behind.

It’s infatuation or hero worship. (Or something.)

But it isn’t love. He tells himself that to survive.

It’s not love because he’s a fifteen year old boy and the weight of love would crush his bones.  

It’s not love because he doesn’t know what that word means and he doubts he’ll live long enough to find out.

He doesn’t know what intimacy is or at least not the kind of intimacy she needs.

He’s not asleep, but he knows if he holds too tightly he’ll lose her.

If there’s one thing she likes of his, it’s that blanket. This winter’s been especially cruel. She gathers it up and wraps it around herself, leaving him in the cold while she watches him pretend to sleep. She smiles softly. 

She thinks about kissing his forehead, but it passes, and she gets to her feet — blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. 

"You’re not staying?" It’s the first and last time he asks.

"Can’t, I have.."

"Eren, I know." Eren always comes first. Jean knows he doesn’t even come in second place. There’s Eren then there’s Armin then there’s the ghost of everyone’s she’s lost and this perverse sense of loyalty and respect to Levi that he’ll never understand. But he’s the one sleeping beside her. He’s the one holding her through the storm. 

"You should have this," Mikasa says, passing the blanket back to him, "It’s a cold night."

"You have _that_ scarf to stay warm,” Jean says bitterly.

Mikasa smiles past the hurt. “Keep warm, Jean.”

Love tastes like their lips mingled together and feels like the way he sighs into her kiss.

_I have no heart._

Her reminders aren’t gentle.


End file.
